


Let Me Say--

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [86]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fillorian STD, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Miscommunication, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, making shit up as plot devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25425220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: After it's all over, after Castle Blackspire and Alice's not-betrayal and Quentin's misguided attempt to damn himself forever, after Julia and her goddess powers saved the day and Eliot left the Monster and yet another innocent host dead on the floor, after magic is back and they're all safely ensconced in Castle Whitespire without a scratch on them, after...after, Eliot goes to Quentin.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [86]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	Let Me Say--

After it's all over, after Castle Blackspire and Alice's not-betrayal and Quentin's misguided attempt to damn himself forever, after Julia and her goddess powers saved the day and Eliot left the Monster and yet another innocent host dead on the floor, after magic is back and they're all safely ensconced in Castle Whitespire without a scratch on them, after... _after_ , Eliot goes to Quentin.

He's not a king anymore. Quentin still is, but he's spent more time out of Fillory than in it at this point, and Margo doesn't need his help. She's offered Eliot a position on the council as an advisor, and he thinks he's going to take it, just... not yet. Queen Fen is already doing great things, and the people love her more than they ever loved Eliot. So the castle is quiet now, for them. Eliot ducked away from the bustle of servants and subjects alike, all vying for answers from the High King about what the return of magic means for them, and has been wandering aimlessly, trying to find the courage to do this.

He still doesn't think he's found it, but he also can't find any more excuses to put it off, so. Here he is. Outside of Quentin's rooms, where he's been hiding out ever since Margo laughed him out of the throne room. She didn't mean it unkindly, but he was clearly exhausted and, as aforementioned, she doesn't need his help. Eliot isn't sure if Quentin will have taken that hard or not. He supposes he's about to find out.

He knocks.

There's no answer for a moment, and then there's footsteps on the other side of the door. It swings open a moment later, and Quentin, rumpled and clearly no better rested than he had been the last time Eliot saw him, opens the door. He blinks when he sees Eliot. "Oh. Hey, El. What's up?"

"Can I come in?" Eliot asks, before he loses his nerve. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Sure." Quentin steps back and out of the way, giving Eliot room to pass by. He closes the door after him. "Make yourself comfortable."

Eliot wanders into the room and sits down on the bed before he turns back to look at Quentin. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Quentin snorts, coming closer and sitting next to Eliot. "Are any of us, after the past few months?" he retorts. 

"I'm asking about you," Eliot says simply.

"I don't know," Quentin sighs. "It's been... one thing after another, too fast to really keep up with. I've just been in survival mode for so long, I haven't thought about whether I'm okay or not in months."

Eliot winces. "I'm sorry," he says, "for any part I played in that."

Quentin shrugs. "It was a minor part, if at all," he says. "Considering the whole quest thing, the fairies, and then the Monster..."

"Still," Eliot says, "I'm sorry. For a lot of things."

Quentin sighs, gives Eliot a small smile. "Thanks. How are _you_ doing?"

"Right now, I'm just glad that everyone made it back alive," Eliot says. "Especially you."

Quentin's flush is obvious even in the dim evening light. "Yeah, it was a little touch and go for a minute, there. But I'm glad that you're safe, too."

Eliot smiles. "Listen, Q, there's something I need to say, and... It's a little out of left field, maybe, but just hear me out, okay?"

Quentin's shoulders straighten, and he looks at Eliot intently. "Okay. Shoot."

"Okay," Eliot says, and takes a very deep breath. "The conversation we had, after we remembered everything at the mosaic. I might have been... a little hasty."

"Okay," Quentin says slowly, clearly confused. "Hasty about... what?"

"Saying that we don't work," Eliot admits. "I was just... scared to fuck _us_ up. It's not worth losing your friendship over, y'know? But I think if we carry on like this I might lose you anyway."

Quentin's brow furrows. "So, what - we try to find a happy medium?"

"I think we can't go on like this," Eliot says. "You were right: we do work. Fifty years, Q." He laughs. "Hell, we slowed down a little, but we were still all over each other well into our seventies. Of course we're compatible."

"Until your dick stopped working," Quentin remembers, grinning. He shakes his head, still smiling. "So, what? We stay friends, and we fuck sometimes?"

The bottom drops out of Eliot's stomach. "Is that... what you want?" he asks.

Quentin shrugs. "I mean, it's not like sex with you is a _chore,_ " he says. "And you've made your stance on relationships pretty clear."

"Right," Eliot says dully. "This is a little different, though."

"Well, yeah," Quentin says, but now he sounds slightly unsure, and he's looking at Eliot carefully, like he's wary of misstepping. "I mean, it wouldn't be exclusive, would it?"

Fucking _Christ_. "Well, I guess we never were then," Eliot says. It's true. Eliot remembers having more than a few one night stands in the beginning, before Arielle bashed their heads together. And after... Well, they were grieving, and they had a small child to raise. There wasn't time. "Okay. If you're sure that's what you want."

"Sure," Quentin says, offering Eliot a smile that seems a little stiff around the edges. He shifts in place, brings one knee up onto the bed, leans back on one hand. "So, did you just come up here to talk about this, or...?"

"Pretty much," Eliot says. He hates himself. "And to check on you, obviously. You've been through a lot."

"We all have, the past few months," Quentin says. "But now, maybe we finally have time to... slow down?"

Eliot's eyebrows raise. "Oh," he says, eloquently. He turns to face Quentin a little better, leans into his space. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

Quentin shrugs, his gaze tracking Eliot's movement intently. "Yeah. I mean, we've got magic back, there's nothing threatening all our lives...."

"The last time we fucked in this lifetime even that didn't stop us," Eliot concedes.

Quentin's expression does something interesting before it smooths out and he chuckles. "Those were kind of... extenuating circumstances? No emotion bottles this time, just us."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees. "Just us, and some pretty compelling proof of concept."

The interesting thing happens to Quentin's face again, and then he shifts, leans in until his face is only inches away from Eliot's. "Are you just going to sit over there and talk about this all day, or are you going to actually come over here and fuck me at some point?"

There's not a lot Eliot can say to that, so he just gets a hand around the back of Quentin's neck and drags him in for a kiss.

Quentin goes easily, _eagerly,_ his hands curving over Eliot's shoulders as he presses in closer, a needy noise escaping him as they part. " _El._ "

"Hey, Q," Eliot sighs, and dips in for another kiss. He lets this one linger, tries to gentle Q a little, but he's not so sure he succeeds when Quentin bites at his lower lip and starts tugging at his shirt.

"C'mon," Quentin murmurs, the wrong side of intimate as his knuckles brush Eliot's stomach. "C'mon, Eliot, _please._ "

"All right, all right." Eliot kisses him again, lets himself get swept up in Quentin's urgency. Whatever's going on in his head, it still feels like Eliot's body knows Quentin's, and he wants this, he always wants this. "Help me, okay? Clothes off."

"I'll do yours if you do mine," Quentin bargains, breathless, even as he presses in for another searing kiss. 

"That hardly sounds efficient," Eliot mumbles, but he pulls away long enough to drag Quentin's shirt over his head.

"If you're still talking like that, then you're not distracted enough," Quentin complains once his shirt is out of the way. He reaches for Eliot's own, fingers already working the buttons almost too quick to track. 

Eliot is no help at all, too busy undoing Quentin's belt to cooperate with him. "This was a lot easier when we were in peasant clothes," he huffs as he works the button on his jeans loose. Another moment and he gives up entirely, just slides a hand into Quentin's pants and palms him through his underwear.

Quentin swears, his hips jerking, arching into Eliot's touch. "Much less complicated," he agrees, finally pushing Eliot's shirt off of his shoulders and reaching for Eliot's pants. 

Eliot pulls away long enough to get them both undressed, but once he's got Quentin naked in front of him, he really can't keep his hands to himself. He drags Quentin in for another searing kiss and then pushes him back onto the bed, following him down so that he can just touch him _everywhere_.

Quentin goes easily, without protest, and touches Eliot in return, his hands roaming eagerly. "Fuck, Eliot," he gasps, back arching as his hands drop to Eliot's hips, grip tightening as his cock brushes Eliot's stomach. 

"God, you feel so good," Eliot rasps. "Here, let me, let me just--" He shifts his hips until their cocks rub together, and he loses himself for a moment, lets himself just... rock there, his face hidden in the crook of Quentin's neck as his body moves against him. It takes a moment before he has the wherewithal to work a hand between them and curl his fingers around them both.

Quentin jerks like Eliot shocked him, but his hands never leave Eliot, sliding over his skin like they belong there. " _Eliot,_ " he groans, one hand curving over Eliot's ribs, drifting in to his stomach and down, until it can join the hand Eliot has wrapped around their cocks. " _Fuck._ "

"That's it," Eliot sighs. He feels feverish with want. "God, I want to fuck you, but I can't-- I need--"

"Next time," Quentin promises, rolling his hips. He's breathless, the hand not on their cocks kneading the muscle of Eliot's shoulder. "You can fuck me next time."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, grinding down against Quentin. "Next time. I just want to fucking-- make you come."

"You're gonna," Quentin groans, head falling back against the bed. "I wanna feel you come, too, El - Wanna make you come."

Everything kind of slips away after that, everything but Quentin's body beneath his, slick with sweat; the feeling of their cocks pressed so sweetly together, fucking through their fists; the way they move against each other with such ease, like this is what they're meant for. It's desperate and needy and _perfect_ , and it could take minutes or seconds or hours, but suddenly Eliot is _there_ , riding that edge, letting his body take over as he grips Quentin's shoulder with his free hand as he bites out, "Q, I'm gonna--"

”Do it,” Quentin gasps, his hips jerking out of the rhythm they’ve established before he settles back into it. “I’m gonna - I’m close, El, come on - “

Eliot cries out, Quentin's name on his lips, and comes filthy-wet-messy between them. Eliot's orgasm, the way it makes his hips jerk and his grip around their cocks tighten, pushes Quentin over the edge, and he comes with a groan that's very nearly a sob, adding to the mess between their stomachs, his hand tightening on Eliot's shoulder until he's half-afraid he's drawn blood. " _Eliot,_ " he gasps, hand shifting so he can tangle his fingers in Eliot's hair, pull him in for a frantic kiss that slows, turns languid as his orgasm ebbs, leaving him breathless for more than one reason on the bed beneath Eliot.

Eliot just goes with it, kisses him long and slow and deep while he still can. "That is my name," he sighs when they pull apart, a little too long since Quentin spoke for it to make much sense. His nose wrinkles. "We're kind of gross now."

Quentin sighs, glancing down between them. "Yeah," he agrees, then looks back up. "But hey. We have magic back now. Easy clean-up."

Eliot laughs, but carefully sits up so that he can work his way through the tuts that will leave them squeaky clean. He looks down at Quentin for a moment, considering, but rather than lean back in for a kiss he just sighs and stands up from the bed. "Well," he says, casting about for his clothes, "this has been lovely, but..." He bends to snatch his shirt and underwear from the floor. "I'd better be going."

Quentin doesn't answer right away, and when he does, his tone is... almost forcibly light. "Yeah, I guess," he says. The bed shifts, sheets rustling behind Eliot, and a small, satisfied noise tells him that Quentin's just indulged in a long stretch. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Eliot doesn't turn to look at him while he pulls his pants on. "I'm sure you will," he says. Only once he reaches the door does he glance back, and only then for a moment. "Goodnight, Q."

Quentin has already slid under the covers, and his smile almost seems to be missing something as he calls back, "Goodnight, El."

* * *

Things are weird for the next few weeks, and they don't seem to be getting better. Going from best friends to life partners to slightly strained best friends to best-friends-with-benefits isn't easy. Still, Eliot loves Quentin, in more ways than one, and if this is what he needs from Eliot then Eliot can pussy up and deal with it. He just wishes that he could get some space to... to think, to square all of this away in a little box in his head so that he can be the person Quentin, and everyone else, expects him to be.

The problem is that he and Quentin can't seem to stay away from each other. It feels like they've fucked in every private corner of Castle Whitespire in the short time since they had that conversation, in some cases more than once. Eliot can't keep his hands off him whenever they're alone, and whenever they're not alone Quentin is constantly finding excuses to grab Eliot and disappear somewhere they can be. And when they're together, when Quentin is sucking Eliot off in a quiet alcove or when Eliot is fucking Quentin against the wall in his chambers because they couldn't make it to the bed, it's amazing. They've always been good together like this, Eliot knew they would be long before the threesome in Quentin's first year. But it doesn't last. The moment they've caught their breath, Quentin is saying something about wanting to find a book in the library, or else Eliot is muttering about needing his own bed. They don't curl together like they used to in Fillory of the past, they don't kiss and touch each other with the easy familiarity of lifelong lovers. In fact, since that first time, they've barely kissed at all.

It's not just about the sex, either. Whenever they're together casually, hanging out with Margo and the others - never alone - Eliot finds himself gravitating to Quentin, leaning into him when they're sat together or passing a hand over his shoulders as he crosses the room to get something. Quentin seems similarly afflicted. It's second nature, even without the memories of the mosaic, for them to touch each other like it means nothing. Like it means everything. But they can't. They're not together, and they're not supposed to be this familiar with each other, and as soon as one of them realises what they're doing they spring apart like they've been burned, and take special care not to do it again, to the point where they'll go out of their way not to touch each other at all.

So, things have been weird. Eliot hates it, but he also knows that he should be grateful that he gets even this much from Quentin: stolen, secret moments where Eliot can lose himself in the catch of Quentin's breath and the sound of his moans and pretend, just for a handful of moments, that everything is as it should be. Of course, he should have known that Margo would notice.

"So," Margo says, drawing the word out as she shuts the door to the small solar behind her. She'd cornered him in the dining room, after yet another incident with Quentin and the casual touches they can't seem to stop. She'd dragged Eliot away when a servant had looked a little too interested in the conversation, and found this room empty. "What the _fuck_ is going on with you and Quentin?"

"Nothing," Eliot says, and then qualifies, "much."

"Don't insult me like that, Eliot," Margo says, unimpressed. "What is going on?" 

Eliot sighs, and leans back against a dresser, his hands braced on either side of him. "We're fucking," he says bluntly. "That's all."

Margo blinks, clearly caught off-guard. " _Just_ fucking?"

"Yes," Eliot says.

Margo raises an eyebrow. "And how long have you been just fucking?"

"Since we got magic back?"

The unimpressed look is back. "You sure about that? And you sure that _he_ knows it's just fucking? You two act like you get a literal electric shock whenever you touch wherever we can see."

Eliot gives her a baleful look. "It was his idea," he says. "We're just... working out the kinks."

" _Quentin_ suggested a friends-with-benefits arrangement. With you." Margo shakes her head. "El, honey, what have you two idiots got yourselves into this time?"

"A mutually-beneficial, fully consensual sexual relationship," Eliot says smoothly. "And why not? We're both adults."

Margo just looks Eliot for a long time before she speaks again. "And you're really okay with that?"

Eliot makes himself hold her gaze. "Yes," he says.

Margo doesn't quite look disappointed, but she does sigh. "I think you still need to figure out what you want," she says. "And if this isn't going to give you _everything_ you want, then you need to cut your losses, El. No dick is worth suffocating yourself over."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Save your pep talk for someone who needs it, Bambi."

"I did, Eliot," Margo retorts. "I'm serious. Figure out what you need to be happy, and if he refuses to give it to you, then cut this fuckbuddies shit off. You deserve better than being the cliche gay dirty secret."

Eliot frowns. "That's not what this is," he says, and straightens up to his full height. "Christ, Margo, it's like you don't know Quentin at all. Or me. Just keep your nose out, all right?"

Margo rolls her eyes, turning back to the door. "Fine. You know where to find me when he breaks you."

Eliot just watches her go, and tries to tell himself she isn't right.

* * *

Margo's words make Eliot think, no matter how much he tries to avoid it, and so the next evening after dinner, he pulls Quentin aside, into a private parlor. Quentin's grinning when he turns around from locking the door, and he's relaxed, standing loose-limbed, obviously waiting for Eliot to close the distance between them. "Couldn't wait until tonight?" he asks, voice teasing. 

_No,_ Eliot thinks. He's buzzing with nervous energy. "That's actually not why we're here," he says.

Quentin's expression falters, turns uncertain. "Oh?"

"I just wanted to check in," Eliot says. "We've been... spending a lot of time together. Obviously this arrangement is new to both of us, so I guess I wanted to make sure you're okay with everything."

Quentin's expression relaxes. "Oh. Well, yeah, I'm good," he says, giving Eliot a smile. "You?"

Eliot takes a breath. He says, "Yeah. I'm good. I guess..." He casts about for the right words. "Do you think we're spending too much time together?"

A slight frown creases Quentin's brow. "Uh, no? I mean, we spend a lot of time together, but. It's not like we don't spend time with other people, too."

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Right," he says, and he knows his voice sounds strange. "Of course we do."

If Quentin notices the strangeness, he doesn’t comment. "I mean," he says, and now he's shifting on his feet, hands twisting in an anxious tic at his sides, "we never, you know. Said we were exclusive, so. I don't think we're spending too much time together, not like we're the only ones we're seeing."

Eliot feels sick. "Yeah," he says, "of course."

"Right," Quentin says, nodding. "So, um. Was that all you wanted to talk about?"

"I guess so," Eliot says. "I'm kind of tired, so I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, giving Eliot a smile that might be a little strained around the edges - or maybe Eliot's just projecting. "I'll see you tomorrow, El."

* * *

Eliot is bored. He and everyone else of even vague importance in Fillory is crammed into the throne room of Castle Whitespire, to be entertained by jugglers, firebreathers and canapes, all in the name of welcoming some visiting dignitary from... somewhere. Eliot doesn't really care where. He didn't care when Margo told him about it last month, or when Rafe reminded him about it yesterday, or when said dignitary arrived with incredible fanfare a few hours ago - and he certainly doesn't care about it now.

"Hello," he says, when Quentin inevitably finds him. There's every chance that Quentin wasn't even looking for him; he's tucked away in a corner behind a statue, and Quentin is known for seeking out small, safe places during uncomfortable social events. It probably speaks more to Eliot's knowledge of that fact that Eliot got here first. "I'm drunk, and I thought you were avoiding me."

"No more than you were avoiding me," Quentin says, but he doesn't quite meet Eliot's gaze when he says it. 

"Point," Eliot says. He lifts his glass of mediocre Fillorian wine to his lips. "And yet here you are."

"Here I am," Quentin agrees. He hesitates before adding, "It was... weird. Not talking to you. I missed you."

Eliot glances at him and then away. "I missed you too," he says. "Would you like a drink?"

Quentin looks uncertain for a moment before he nods. "Just one," he decides. 

Eliot conjures him another glass with a few tuts that are somewhat less than graceful, and splashes a generous amount of wine into it. "There's plenty more where that came from, sweetie."

Quentin snorts, smiling. "'Sweetie'? How much of the wine have you had already?"

Eliot considers the bottle for a moment. "A lot?"

Quentin shakes his head, still smiling, before he takes a sip. "I think the wine's gotten a bit better," he offers. "Even if the champagne is still awful."

Eliot grimaces. "I haven't had much time to work on that lately," he admits. "But maybe I'll get back into it."

"Fillory could use some better alcohol," Quentin muses. "Maybe you could work with some Nature magicians?"

"That," Eliot says, waving his wine glass, "is an excellent idea. I'll just pop over to Brakebills in the morning and pop them back. Excellent."

Quentin snorts. "Or you could work with some druids or somebody here?" he suggests. "Someone who knows how farming for grapes works, not just in general."

"Q, I had to teach this entire country about agriculture," Eliot says. "But we'll see. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"I don't think you'll have any trouble with that," Quentin says - and then looks surprised at himself, like he hadn't planned to speak at all. 

Eliot snorts indelicately. "Quentin," he says, and laughs. "Be careful. People could hear."

"Everyone's busy getting drunk off of Fillorian wine," Quentin points out. "No one's paying attention to us, thanks to their awful alcohol tolerances."

"Oh, so _that's_ why you're here," Eliot says.

Quentin shrugs, his expression equal parts nervous and hopeful - but like he's trying very hard not to be hopeful. "I mean, if you want. Or I'm happy to sit here and drink and talk shit with you."

Eliot sets his wine glass down a little haphazardly and leans into Quentin's space. "What do you want, Quentin?"

Quentin's eyes widen, but he doesn't lean away, doesn't put the space back between them. "I - " He stops, something unreadable flicking across his expression before he starts again. "I wouldn't object to getting out of here. To somewhere more... private."

Eliot smirks. "Then by all means," he says, "let's go."

* * *

The sex is, as always, phenomenal - if a little rushed. They can barely keep their hands off each other by the time they make it to Quentin's room, and as soon as they've spelled the door locked they're pulling at each other's clothes, eager to feel skin on skin. Once they're naked Eliot pushes Quentin back onto the bed, just like he had the first time they did this, right after they agreed to their little arrangement. Quentin looks up at him, his eyes wide and dark, but there's something in his gaze that makes Eliot want to hide. He can't fuck Quentin like this, can't press their bodies together and lose himself in the feel of him that way - so he shoves Quentin's knees apart, shoulders his way between them, and swallows Quentin's cock instead.

It's not the best blowjob he's ever given, which means it's definitely not the best Quentin has ever received, but it still isn't long before he's shaking apart, trying to warn Eliot to pull back if he wants to. He doesn't want to. Quentin comes down his throat with a muffled shout, and afterwards Eliot jerks off, feeling too much like a live wire to be able to stand Quentin's hands on him. He doesn't quite remember what happens then, but he thinks Quentin takes advantage of his lack of coordination post-orgasm to manhandle him into some sort of spooning arrangement. He falls asleep soon after.

When he wakes up, he's alone.

He's also decidedly hungover, and before he gathers his wits long enough to make it back to his own rooms and down a certain potion, he takes a long, long moment to regret all of his life choices that have led him to this moment. Well, most of them. Because of course Quentin isn't here. Of course he fucked Eliot and let him sleep in his bed and then got out at the earliest opportunity. Why would he have done anything else?

Once he's taken that potion and has finished cycling through the next twelve hours of his hangover in twelve minutes instead, he washes his face and gets dressed, and only then does he notice the note on his pillow. It's from Margo, in a surprising display of tact.

_When you've finished getting your dick wet, get your fine ass to the throne room for brunch with the delegates. Bitch xoxo_

Right. They're in the middle of some kind of diplomatic event. Eliot surveys his reflection in the mirror and decides that even though he's not a king anymore, he should probably wear something a little more regal.

Of course, Quentin is the first person he sees when he walks into the throne room. He's deep in conversation with a woman Eliot doesn't recognise, in clothing that suggests she's from whatever country or isle or region is currently visiting Whitespire. Quentin seems fascinated by what the woman has to say, and the woman seems fascinated by Quentin; Eliot can see her face, see the way she leans into Quentin's space, the way she reaches out to touch Quentin's arm when she laughs.

Jealousy seethes through Eliot, hot and molten. He wants to storm over there, wrench this stranger's hands off of Quentin and pull Quentin out of the room, stake his claim for everyone to see. But he doesn't have a claim. Quentin has made that perfectly clear.

He feels sick.

He's... being approached? A man in similar clothing to Quentin's new girlfriend is walking up to Eliot, his expression warm and his eyes alight with interest. Something vicious stirs inside Eliot for a moment before he pastes on a serene smile and extends a hand to the man as he draws near. "Good morning," he says. "Or afternoon, possibly. I'm afraid I may have enjoyed myself a little too much last night. I hope you're finding your stay pleasant?"

"Very pleasant," the delegate assures him, eyes sparkling. "I'm sure many people indulged a bit too heavily last night; Fillory does always throw such wonderful parties."

Eliot smiles back, all kinds of smug. "I'd like to think at least some of that is my influence," he admits.

The delegate laughs, his grip on Eliot's hand tightening for a moment before they release one another. His fingertips drag lightly across Eliot's wrist, skimming the place his pulse would be. "Fillory did gain a certain charm when you were High King," he concedes. "And has continued to flourish under High King Margo. You are one of her advisors, are you not?"

"Oh, yes," Eliot says. His gaze wanders past the man towards Quentin, who is laughing at something the lady delegate said. They're infinitely closer now than they were before. He looks away. "Her most trusted advisor, naturally. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Livurel," the delegate says, sketching a courteous bow. "At your service, my lord." There's a certain tilt to his mouth, a gleam to his eyes, that makes the double meaning clear. 

In another life, such an obvious display of interest might have lit Eliot on fire, but now... Well. He glances at Quentin once more and then back to Livurel. It's doing _something_. "Why don't we take this conversation elsewhere?"

* * *

The sex isn't great, and Eliot tells himself that's the only reason he regrets it. He sucks the guy off and then fucks him hard and fast, just to get it over with. As soon as he comes he pulls out and tells Livurel to get out - he doesn't even try to be nice about it. Maybe he'll feel that tomorrow if Livurel goes whining to Margo, but he doesn't care. He can't look at him any longer.

The next day, Eliot doesn't even see him. He does see Quentin, and he tries his hardest to keep any sort of inflection out of his voice when he asks if he had a nice night with his lady friend. He must not succeed, because Quentin looks puzzled, though he does say yes. Eliot feels sick. He avoids Quentin and everyone else for the rest of the day.

But he can't hide away forever. Margo drags him back to the land of the living the day after, and Quentin finds him after dinner. Eliot is suddenly ravenous. He doesn't care who Quentin's been fucking; it's Eliot he chooses to come back to, time and time again, and Eliot needs to remind him that no one will ever be as good as him.

Still, this time is different from all the times before. It's not rough, but it's a lot more urgent than it usually is. Eliot has to have him _now_ , and he makes that perfectly clear. Quentin doesn't seem to mind, even when Eliot realises halfway through that he can't _look_ at Quentin, and flips him over so that he can fuck him from behind. It's still spectacular, just like every other time, and he draws blood biting his lip to keep from saying something he'll regret when he comes.

He doesn't stick around long enough to fall asleep this time.

They're still awkward around each other after that, but it feels better than it did. They fuck a few more times, back to the usual routine of pulling each other into secret passageways or abandoned parlours for a quick tryst, or else seeking each other out in their rooms when they can't sleep or just have an itch they can't scratch. It's never quite as desperate again, but there's a new edge to it, like they've both got something to prove.

Eliot loves it as much as he hates it.

Still, even with how much they've been seeing of each other, it's a little unusual for Quentin to come slamming into his rooms at fuck o'clock in the morning, shouting about how El better get his ass up and... pee?

"What?" Eliot asks into his pillow. He pushes himself up on his elbows to peer blearily at Quentin, still sprawled on his front in the middle of the bed. His hair is fucking everywhere, he probably still has yesterday's eyeliner smeared all over his face, and he's definitely naked. Quentin, on the other hand, looks perfectly put together, and furious. "Is this some kind of new fetish?"

"No," Quentin actually _growls,_ "it's not a goddamn fetish, it's a direct order from both a King of Fillory and the best goddamn healer in the castle. Now get your ass out of your goddamn bed and go to the bathroom, tell me if you notice anything different."

"Christ, all right, hold your damn horses." Eliot struggles out of bed and stomps into the bathroom, heedless of his nudity. He takes his sweet time relieving himself, but when he does he has to admit that he notices something unusual. "Why," he asks, reappearing in the doorway to the bathroom, "am I pissing fucking _rainbows?_ "

Quentin's arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw set. "It's a Fillorian STD," he spits. "Harmless except for changing the color of all bodily fluids for a few days, which is why no one ever fucking talks about it. The only bad thing is it takes a week to appear, which is how it gets passed around mostly."

"A fucking STD?" Eliot demands, mortified. "I've never had an STD in my life!"

"Yeah, well you do now," Quentin retorts. "And you fucking _gave_ it to me."

Eliot scoffs. "Excuse me?" he asks. "How can you blame this on me? How do I know you didn't catch it while that delegation was here last week?"

"Because I didn't fuck any of them," Quentin snaps back. "But I definitely saw _you_ leaving with one of them one night."

Eliot scoffs. "What, so you're telling me you didn't fuck that woman who was all over you?"

"I haven't fucked anyone but _you_ since we started this whole thing!" The words practically explode out of Quentin, taking even him by surprise - his eyes widen, and he tenses all over, like he's either bracing for a blow or preparing to bolt. 

Eliot feels the world tilting dramatically beneath his feet. "But you--" he says. "You said we weren't exclusive."

"Yeah, because that's what _you_ wanted," Quentin says bitterly, gaze dropping from Eliot to the floor before he looks out the window. His arms aren't crossed now so much as wrapped around himself. "You never outright asked if I was fucking anyone else, so it never came up."

 _What?_ "What?" Eliot asks. "No. This whole set-up was your idea, Q."

Quentin's gaze snaps back to meet Eliot's, his expression incredulous. "Uh, _no?_ You were the one going on about having been hasty and that we were _compatible_ because we fucked for forty years without losing interest in each other."

Well, that sets Eliot's blood boiling. "We were compatible," he says, "and I did think I'd been too hasty, because we were _together_ for _fifty_ years. You're the one who made it about sex. You're the one who said you wanted to set up this little arrangement - so that you could still get whatever you can't get from me elsewhere."

"When the _fuck_ did I say that?" Quentin demands. 

"That's what it is, isn't it?" Eliot snarls back, desperate. "You don't need to say it; that's what it's always been. Margo. Alice. Christ, even your _wife_. There's something more that you need, and whatever it is, you just keep going somewhere else to get it." He shakes his head, and he fucking _hates himself_ for doing this, but if he's being honest it was always going to come down to this. "I was right that day in the throne room; you weren't thinking clearly, asking me to be with you. Because I'm not fucking good enough for you to _just_ be with _me_."

"I haven't been with anyone else because I don't _need_ anyone else - what I need is for you to _love_ me!" Quentin shouts, and then immediately squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Fuck. No, that - I _want_ you to love me, El, and I know you don't, because it's only ever been about the sex, here, in this life. And I thought... I thought, after the altar and everything, if being your friend was all I got of you, then - then okay. I could cope. Not like I fucking wanted anyone else, when I was more than halfway in love with you before we ever went on that fucking quest." He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, drops his hands from his face so he can look Eliot in the eye again. "I asked you to give us a shot, because I thought... I thought, maybe it's not just about the sex. Maybe it could be more. Then you - you said everything that happened at the mosaic wasn't me, and _definitely_ not you, and I figured. Okay. Guess I was wrong. Then you came back after Blackspire, talking about us being 'compatible,' being all over each us into our seventies until we physically couldn't fuck anymore, and I thought - okay. I want more, but I just want _you_ most. If this is what I get, then it's enough." Quentin's whispering by the end, but his words carry clearly across the utter silence in the room. 

"No," Eliot whispers - and then again, louder: "No. Quentin, that's not true. It was never about the sex for me." He takes a hesitant step closer, but then stalls, unsure of his welcome even now. "I said awful things to you after we remembered that life, and I'm-- I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. And after Blackspire, when I almost lost you for good, I realised I couldn't live a lie anymore. I couldn't pretend I didn't want you just because I knew I wasn't good enough for you. So when we got back here I came to you to ask you to give me another chance, and you just... You said this was what you wanted. Just sex. And if that was the only way I got to have you, then I didn't have the right to ask for more. "

If the world tilted beneath Eliot's feet, then Quentin looks like it dropped out from under him completely. He's rooted to the spot, staring at Eliot with wide eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. "You - I - " he closes his mouth, swallows hard enough that Eliot can see his Adam's apple bob. "Okay, there's a lot to unpack there. If was never just the sex for you, then _why_ the hell did you always act like that? You never - never seriously flirted with me, never did anything to show you were interested in being in a _relationship,_ not just fucking occasionally. Also, 'not good enough'? I need to find whoever made you think that way and punch them, because that's bullshit. Everyone has issues, El." He sighs, shakes his head, but it's more an expression of disbelief than any sort of rejection. "I said this was what I wanted because you already shot me down when I asked for more," he confesses. "I - I wasn't brave enough to ask for more again. Not when you were so clear before. I couldn't imagine that anything had changed, that you might say yes - or that you were coming to ask _me_ for more."

Eliot just shrugs, helpless. "There's always been someone else for you, Quentin," he says. "I-- I know that's not fair, exactly. You were dating Alice the first time we fucked, and Arielle was... You know how much I loved her. But whenever we've been together, you've never wanted just me. When you asked me to try again, after we remembered, I was scared. I didn't know if it would work when I'm not the only person in the world who understands you; when you have so many other options around you, better options. And when I asked you, after Blackspire, I was trying to tell you that you were right. Of course it would work; it worked for decades. I couldn't keep my hands off of you; I was obsessed with you; I _loved_ you. Who gets proof of concept like that? But then obviously I was wrong, because you misunderstood completely. And there we were again. You still wanted to fuck other people."

Quentin looks pained, _anguished,_ the expression worsening as Eliot speaks. His arms have dropped from their defensive position, hands hanging limply by his side. "I never wanted - I thought that's what _you_ wanted," he says, swaying in place like he wants to move forward but can't make his feet cooperate. "There's always been others, you've always told me it's not - not _serious,_ until after Arielle died, and then you just. Never said anything. You never said, 'I love you,' but. I never did either, so that's my fault, too."

Eliot sighs. "It was beyond words," he says. "I always thought you _knew_ \- and I was scared that if I said it out loud, everything would be taken away from me. I don't know. But I did love you. I do love you - I love you so much I don't know what to do with myself; so much it scares the shit out of me. I've been ruled by fear my whole fucking life. What else is new?"

Quentin chokes out a noise that might be a sob or a laugh, or something in between. "I love you, too. I loved you for fifty years, but I never - I didn't think too much about what we'd do when we got back, because. Because part of me never wanted to leave the mosaic, because when we left, you'd leave me. Go back to being friends who keep ending up in each other's beds. But _fifty years_ made me think... Why not give it a shot here?" Quentin shakes his head, reaches up with one finely-trembling hand to run his fingers through his hair. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and Eliot watches him physically steel himself as he meets Eliot's gaze again. "Where do we go from here? I love you, and I don't want to - to just have this be sex. I want every part of a relationship with you, El."

For once, Eliot is at a total loss for words. "I don't know, Q," he admits. "Getting all of this out in the open doesn't make me miraculously good at this. I fucking gave you an STD, and I only had sex with one other person because I thought _you_ were having sex with other people. I'm a fucking mess."

"I put words in your mouth about this whole thing," Quentin points out. "If I'd just let you talk, we could've avoided all of this. I'm not any better at this than you are, really." He pauses, takes a breath, and then says, "I love you. I don't want this to be just sex, and I _definitely_ don't want to fuck anyone else. I want a relationship with you, and I _know_ it'll be hard, but I think... I think it'll be worth it."

"Christ," Eliot says. Now it's his turn to run a hand through his hair, making his curls stick up even more. He turns away. "Look at me. You're offering everything I fucking want on a platter, and I can't make myself take it."

"Why not?" Quentin asks, quiet. Eliot can hear him drawing closer. 

Eliot still can't look at him. "Because I'm scared," he says bitterly. "Because I'm an idiot; because I'm my own worst enemy; because I don't think I deserve things that make me feel like you do. Take your pick."

"Well, I'm an idiot, too, and I'm - I'm terrified right now," Quentin confesses. "I love you so much I can't breathe for it sometimes, and I. I might have fucked it all up. But you deserve nice things, El, and you deserve to be happy, to be with someone you love and who loves you. It won't be all sunshine and rainbows, but the mosaic wasn't, either."

Eliot does turn to look at him, then, and the hope on Quentin's face is almost enough to bring him to his knees. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks. His voice is shaking. "Because I think you're it for me."

Quentin doesn't hesitate. "I'm sure. I've wanted you ever since you said my name like it was the weirdest one you've ever heard, and I don't know how long I've loved you."

Eliot can't take it anymore. He closes the distance between them and wraps Quentin up in his arms, tucking his head right under his chin where it fits so perfectly. "I love you," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry I gave you an STD."

Quentin wraps his arms around Eliot's waist easily, relaxing against him without hesitation. "It's not a serious one," he sighs. "Kinda ironic, actually. I... am a little sorry we had this conversation with you completely naked while I'm still dressed, though."

Eliot glances down at himself, and starts laughing. "I'm sorry for that, too," he says. "Here, I'll get dressed."

"I mean, you don't have to," Quentin laughs. "Not on my account. I always enjoy this view."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but hides his face in Quentin's hair rather than pull away. "You're ridiculous," he says. "What else did the healer say, about our... rainbow problem? Is there anything we need to do?"

"No, it'll go away in a couple of days," Quentin says, letting his arms tighten around Eliot. "Utterly harmless, except for being potentially embarrassing or revealing if your partner cheated on you. Which you didn't."

"I mean, I sort of did."

"Considering we were both under the impression this wasn't exclusive - which it better be now - I'm not going to hold it against you, El."

Eliot sighs. "We're definitely exclusive now," he says. "I told you, you're it for me."

"Good," Quentin murmurs, pulling back so he can duck his head, look at Eliot with a small smile. "Wanna make it official? I haven't kissed you in... too long."

Eliot laughs at that, but he does lean in obligingly, and press a soft kiss to Quentin's lips.

Quentin _melts_ into it with a happy little sigh, shifting so he can run his hands over Eliot's chest, slide one around the back of his neck as he presses closer, deepening the kiss. Eliot mirrors the gesture, his hand finding that space behind Quentin's ear where it fits so well. He sighs into Quentin's mouth and pulls him closer, and Quentin is abruptly reminded of just how naked he is.

Quentin makes an interesting noise, breaking the kiss so he can laugh breathlessly. "So, this is - probably the stupidest thing I've ever said, but. Do you wanna find out if it really is _all_ bodily fluids that turn rainbow?"

"Oh my god," Eliot says, even as he gives Quentin's ass a playful squeeze. "If I come rainbows, I'm going to be the ultimate gay."

"You say that like you aren't already," Quentin teases. 

Eliot grins and kisses Quentin again. "Maybe we should put it to the test."

"Well, you're already naked," Quentin points out. "Help me catch up?"

Eliot takes his time undressing Quentin, doing his best to kiss or touch every inch of exposed skin. All jokes aside, now that they're finally on the same page, Eliot wants to make this count. So he holds Quentin against him when he's finally naked, cradles the back of his neck and kisses him, feels Quentin's skin warm against his own, the way he holds on like he can't get close enough. And then he starts moving, walking back towards the bed, bringing Quentin with him.

He gets a hand on Quentin's ass and draws him down onto the mattress, still kissing him, still pressing as close as he can. He settles on his back against the pillows, Quentin over him, and when he spreads his legs to let Quentin between them, he tips his head back to gasp. He can feel Quentin's interest against him, can feel his own interest like a slow, heady burn. He loves it. He rocks his hips.

Quentin makes a frankly _beautiful_ noise at the movement, his own hips mirroring Eliot’s, dragging their cocks together with slow, delicious friction. He shifts, buries his face in the crook of Eliot’s neck as he rocks against Eliot. Quentin’s lips find his pulse, pounding just beneath the skin, and he kisses there first before starting to worry a bruise, sucking lightly, almost in question. His hands move, drift over Eliot’s shoulders and over his chest, fingers tweaking one nipple before his palm slides broad and hot over Eliot’s stomach.

"Oh, God," Eliot sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. He hooks one leg around Quentin's hip, bringing them even closer together, and squeezes the back of Quentin's neck. "Fuck, Q."

"Later," Quentin promises, breathless. "Too - _shit_ \- too close to last through prep."

"Then make me come," Eliot breathes. He moves with Quentin effortlessly, sweat and precome easing the way, need burning inside him. His hand slips on Quentin's back, and he clutches him closer. "Come with me. Please, Q."

And, well, what else can Quentin do but oblige? He’s far too close to the edge to hold out against the feel and sound of Eliot moving with him, his nails scraping lightly against Quentin’s back as his cock rubs _just so _against Quentin’s. With a cry that sounds vaguely like Eliot’s name, Quentin shudders and comes undone.__

____

____

Eliot isn't far behind. He moans into Quentin's mouth and spills between them, adding to the slick mess on their stomachs. "Oh my god," he gasps once he can find the breath to speak again, his chest still heaving. "We really need to work on our stamina."

Quentin can’t help but snort, turning his head so that he doesn’t do so directly into Eliot’s face. “Maybe we’ll last a little longer when we aren’t so emotionally worked up,” he chuckles, absently lifting one hand to work through the cleaning tut. “Christ, I wish I could say I can’t believe we were so stupid, but…”

"Not right now," Eliot sighs, patting weakly at Quentin's shoulder. "Did we do it? Did we come rainbows?"

Quentin stills, and then pushes himself up just enough to look between them - and then he collapses back on top of Eliot, consumed with helpless giggles. "We did," he says. "Congrats, El. You're the ultimate gay."

Eliot laughs, too, his hands on Quentin's face. "If this had happened under any other circumstance, it might even have been worth it."

"I think it's still kinda worth it," Quentin hums, tipping his chin up in a clear request for a kiss. "Least we figured ourselves out."

Eliot kisses him, soft but sound. "I'm so sorry," he says anyway. "I swear to you if I'd had any idea..."

Quentin cuts him off with another kiss. "We figured it out," he repeats, tone firm. "That's what matters."

"Still," Eliot says, stubborn. "It won't happen again. I'm all yours now."

"I'm yours, too," Quentin promises, dipping in for another kiss. 


End file.
